Sentiment
by Roselna
Summary: "What is it?" Sherlock demanded. If Greg hadn't known better, he might have said Sherlock sounded...concerned. Like something horrible could be inside the box. Hell, maybe Sherlock was concerned. Greg couldn't tell anymore. (Johnlock, Military Reunion AU)


Gregory Lestrade liked to think of himself as a good influence on Sherlock Holmes's life. In reality, he knew that he was less of an influence than he would have liked. Most days, he didn't mind. Sherlock was brilliant, and bringing him in on cases always guaranteed something interesting. There were some black days, though, when Greg wished he was as much of an influence as he fancied himself. He would text Sherlock several times, and finally, after not receiving replies for hours, he'd head over to 221b and find Sherlock stretched out on the couch, veins full of cocaine.

This, unfortunately, was one of those days.

They'd been on a dreadful string of murders just the day before, and Sherlock had figured out where the murderer would be next. In retrospect, the warning sign that one of these days was coming was when Sherlock hadn't raced off immediately, but told him. His disappearance had happened as Greg had sent officers to the given address, without anyone noticing (quite a feat with his dramatic coat.) Greg had texted him after the fact of capturing the murderer, trying to tell him what had happened. When he hadn't gotten any replies, even on an offer to come and question the killer, Greg had left Donovan and Anderson at the Met and went to 221b on his own.

Greg had come to realize, over the past several years of knowing Sherlock, that there truly were only two times of the year he found Sherlock in a drug-induced haze- late August, and early January. A pattern of some sort, and the nearest Greg had been able to figure was that the two times came with emotional baggage of some sort that Sherlock didn't know how to deal with.

"Sherlock?" he called, knocking on the door none-too-lightly. "I know you're in there. Answer the door."

There was a low incoherent sound, which only confirmed Greg's suspicion. Whatever kind of emotional baggage could get Sherlock off a case, Greg couldn't even begin to fathom. He scowled and pushed through the door, unsurprised to find it unlocked.

Sherlock was on the couch, as he had suspected. There was no sign of cocaine or a needle, which meant the bastard had somehow managed to clean up after himself after the hit.

Greg ran a hand through his hair. "You left us with the bloody case halfway through, bastard," he said. Perhaps he had caught Sherlock at the point where he was coming back around and could manage some form of communication.

The groan he got in reply wasn't reassuring.

Greg sighed again and walked over to the lanky detective, rolling him over and checking his pupils. "You are lucky I like you and need you," Greg said.

Sherlock twisted, trying to pull his shoulder out of the grip that Greg had. He started mumbling, getting one clear word across before lapsing back into silence. "John."

"No, Lestrade," Greg said absently, looking around the flat for Sherlock's mobile. The man would hate him later, but the only thing he ever knew to do in these times was to call his older brother.

Locating the phone on the mantel, he scrolled through the contacts until he found 'MH'. "Stay there," he said to Sherlock, probably unnecessarily, stepping outside the flat to make the call.

The elder Holmes picked up on the second ring. "Inspector," he said smoothly, voice as controlled and distant as ever.

Greg sighed. "Are you watching me from behind one of your bloody cameras or something?" he asked. "Because I thought I said not to do that."

"Your life is hardly worth constant monitoring, Inspector. However, since my brother never calls, given the date, and the fact that he was running through the streets of London helping your team only yesterday with a case that was not solved until about an hour ago, the logical explanation is that he dropped off the face of the Earth to you and that you've just been at his flat to find him in a drug-induced haze. I do hope you've made sure it wasn't an overdose."

Greg bit back the urge to mumble some curses. Sherlock was manageable on the best of days. His brother was downright impossible. "As if you wouldn't know immediately," he sighed. "I don't know why I even bother to call."

"Feel free to go back to work, Inspector," Mycroft Holmes said. "I already have someone on the way."

"Naturally," Greg said as he withdrew the phone from his face and stabbed the end button. He turned and walked back into the flat, intent on checking on Sherlock once more before he walked away. "Why do you do this?" he asked the unresponsive detective.

"Afghanistan," was the mumbled response.

"Right," Greg said, zipping up his coat and heading out of the flat.

[ ]

The next time Sherlock acted oddly was at the Met. He was there for paperwork, and was expressing no concerns over displaying his dislike for being there. He was rattling off facts, gaining speed with each passing moment as Greg tried to write them down as quickly as they spilled from his mouth.

"Christ, Sherlock, slow down. You're only increasing the time you have to stay here by talking so fast no one can understand you," Greg snapped.

Sherlock's mouth twisted. The man was in a vile mood, stemming from a combination of things not going totally to his plan and Mycroft's involvement at some point (Greg still was fuzzy on that- he didn't know when or why it happened, only that it did.) The detective opened his mouth to fire off what was sure to be a scathing remark about Greg's competence when Sally Donovan threw the door open.

"Oi! Freak! We're not your bloody postal service!"

Sherlock and Greg both turned to look at the office door. Donovan was standing there, holding an envelope up and scowling. "This was on my desk. With a _note _that said to give it to you," she said. Her tone was not pleased.

Sherlock scowled and muttered something that sounded like 'fat bigot' before holding his hand out to Sally. She threw a look at Greg, offended. Greg sat back in his chair, out of energy for any type of fight and made a vague gesture towards Sherlock. With a snort, Sally crossed the room and thrust the envelope into Sherlock's hand. She remained there after the transfer, arms crossed over her chest.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her. "Do you mind?" he said.

Sally scowled again. "If this letter is so bloody important that it gets put on my desk to hand deliver to you, I'm bloody well going to see what it's about."

This time it was Sherlock who threw a baleful look at Lestrade. The detective inspector shrugged again and closed his eyes. He had gotten too used to Mycroft Holmes's over-the-top ways of contacting a person to be properly intrigued at this point.

There was a loud exhale of annoyance from Sherlock, and the sound of paper against skin as Sherlock turned it over. Then a gasp. Greg opened his eyes again, concerned, and was immediately met with a wide-eyed Sherlock Holmes staring down at the envelope. He hadn't even opened it yet. "What is it?" Greg asked, sitting forward. The movement was enough to spurn Sherlock into action.

The tall man leapt up, tucking the letter into his coat before Greg could get a proper look at it. "I need to go," he said, pulling gloves out of his pocket and thrusting his hands into them.

"You haven't finished the paperwork," Sally reminded.

Sherlock turned and looked straight at her. "This takes precedent," he said. With a whirl of fabric, the detective was gone.

Sally turned to Greg. "He didn't finish the paperwork," she repeated.

Greg sighed, looking down at his half-completed notes. "I'll call him later," he decided, settling back down into his chair. He heard Sally snort and leave, but it didn't really register. He was too busy wondering what the letter was, and why it had made Sherlock look like his life depended on it.

[ ]

Greg knew the Holmes brothers didn't get along. It was a fact of life, one that seemed to have always existed.

So his surprise when Mycroft Holmes walked into 221b was perfectly acceptable.

He and Sherlock were in the living room of the flat, going over Sherlock's deductions about a case. Well, trying to. Greg was more of a target at which Sherlock hurled his words until he came up with the correct answer. Suddenly, Mycroft was standing in the doorway, tapping ever-so lightly on the door with his umbrella.

"No, no no no," Greg said immediately, pointing at the elder Holmes. "He's already on a case for me, you can't have him. He's mine."

Sherlock gave him a horrified look. "I am not _yours_," he said. Mycroft merely looked amused.

"Contrary to your belief, Inspector, my brother and I interact beyond cases," Mycroft said.

"We do _not,_" Sherlock said, huffing and throwing himself into the leather chair by the fireplace. "And only on cases if I'm really bored," he added.

Mycroft sighed. "Why must you be so disagreeable?" he mused. The eldest Holmes leaned on his umbrella lightly, and Greg noticed that he had a rather large package tucked under his arm.

"What's that?" he asked, inclining his chin towards the package.

Mycroft looked down at the box. "This? Just a package for Sherlock that I took the liberty of picking up," he said.

"You don't take the liberty of anything, you send your minions to do it," Sherlock said from his chair.

At the comment, Mycroft frowned. "They are not minions," he said. Then he rearranged his expression into his usual neutral facade. "Besides, I thought you might appreciate my involvement in getting the package from one country to another so quickly."

Greg was expecting a sarcastic comment to be thrown across the room, an on-principle decline of the package. Instead, there was a dark blur as Sherlock was up and across the room, standing in front of Mycroft in a heartbeat.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded. If Greg hadn't known better, he might have said Sherlock sounded...concerned. Like something horrible could be inside the box.

Hell, maybe Sherlock was concerned. Greg couldn't tell anymore.

Mycroft gave a small smile. "Why don't you open it and see?" he suggested, as teasingly as the British Government could.

Sherlock scowled, but took the package from his brother. He looked at it from several different angles, tossing it between his hands gently. His brow furrowed. "There's at least three boxes, and layers of paper to try and weight it differently," he said. Sherlock looked back at Mycroft. "Why would he send me something like this?"

Mycroft only lifted an eyebrow in response. Greg wondered who 'he' was.

Sherlock frowned again, looking back down at the box. He wrenched the knife out of the mantle, then used it to slice through the packaging tape on the cardboard. His deductions were correct as always, and there were two more boxes he had to open before finding a neat black giftbox inside the last one. Sherlock's brow only furrowed deeper. Mycroft was watching with an expectant look on his face.

Sherlock hesitated for only a moment before lifting the top off of the box. Inside, a piece of blue fabric was carefully folded up, a piece of paper sitting atop it. Sherlock seemed to stop breathing for a moment before he carefully lifted both the piece of fabric- it was a scarf- and the note out of the box. Sherlock looked at the note first, eyes scanning what seemed to be a short message before snorting. "Birthdays- what do birthdays matter?" he muttered.

"It's a perfectly nice scarf, Sherlock. I'm sure he put a lot of thought into it," Mycroft reminded him.

Greg was about to ask who this 'he' was when Sherlock gasped.

"The woman's scarf! Of _course!_" Sherlock said. Just like that, they were pushing past Mycroft and hurrying away from 221b to catch a killer.

Later that evening, after a wild game of chase-Sherlock-while-he-chases-the-criminal, all thoughts of the mysterious 'he' had been out of Greg's mind. He didn't think of it again.

[ ]

Months passed after the mysterious package incident. Greg continued to call Sherlock in for cases. Sherlock stopped with the bi-annual cocaine usage. Greg wasn't sure if this was because he had indirectly threatened Sherlock, or Mycroft had intervened, or if it was some other completely separate reason. Whatever way, it was good.

Greg found himself once again being a verbal idea-target as Sherlock paced around 221b. The case wasn't up to Sherlock's usual standards, which meant the man had gotten a bit whiny and started compensating for the relative dullness by being flashier and more dramatic. Which didn't really make him easier to work with.

"Sherlock, I didn't follow a word you just said," Greg complained, leaping up as Sherlock suddenly threw on his coat and swept out of the flat.

Without looking back, Sherlock answered in what sounded like Latin. Which really bugged Greg, because he didn't know a lick of Latin, and made him think that Sherlock didn't have much reason for sweeping out of the flat other than to annoy him.

Grumbling, Greg raced down the stairs after him. Sherlock, somehow, was already out of the door and slamming it behind him. "Arrogant twat," Greg muttered, wrenching open the door and stepping out into the afternoon light. Sherlock was standing at the curb, looking up and down the street. Greg walked over. "What are we doing?" he asked.

"Looking for the thief," Sherlock replied. They stood there for a few minutes, staring intently at the street. Sherlock hadn't deigned to explain to Greg what the hell a thief had to do with the money laundering case he had brought with him, but also didn't feel like getting another earful of a random language. He'd come to learn that sometimes you just had to let Sherlock do whatever he said needed to be done. Things usually got done quicker that way.

A black car pulling up a little ways down the street caught Greg's eye. The door opened, and from his vantage point Greg couldn't see who was getting out. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, though, because at the same moment he gave an exhale and pointed across the street.

"There!" Sherlock shouted. Then he darted into busy London traffic.

Greg froze for a millisecond. Who the _hell _leaps into London traffic unless they have a death wish? He would think later.

Greg unfroze and went to leap out and grab the back of Sherlock's coat and pull him back to the safety of the sidewalk, but someone else beat him to it. There was a tan blur, and then Sherlock was suddenly on the pavement again. A small man was sprawled across him, obviously having tackled Sherlock back and away from oncoming cars.

There was a moment of stunned silence as the man sat up. "What the _bloody hell _do you think you're doing?" he said. Greg was frozen again, this time with shock as the stranger started lecturing Sherlock. "Have you gone _mad? _Honestly, Sherlock what are you doing? Leaping out into traffic? Do you not remember the incident with the taxi a few years ago?"

The man continued on like that, not seeming to think about what he was saying as he carefully check Sherlock's eyes and pulse. Sherlock stared up at him, seeming, for the first time in Greg's memory, to be unable to comprehend what was in front of him.

The stranger was still talking. "...great welcome back present, seeing you leap out into a busy street-"

He was suddenly cut off by Sherlock jerking forward, taking the man's face in his hands and rolling over so that he was straddling the man, then attaching their mouths together.

Greg reared back, shocked, and looked away. They were on a bloody _sidewalk_. People were staring, quite openly. Greg kept his eyes averted, counted to ten, and then stepped over and nudged Sherlock with his foot. "Oi," he said. "Knock it off. You're in the middle of the street."

Sherlock lifted his head to glare up at Greg. "I'm _busy_," he said plaintively.

"Yeah, I see that, but you're also being a public nuisance and I can arrest you for that," Greg reminded him. He couldn't bring himself to look down at the unknown man still on the ground underneath Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, as if he were being tedious. "Inside, John," he said, addressing the other man, who had turned red when Greg started talking. Sherlock turned back to Greg. "The thief is the shop owner's brother. He has the evidence. Good-day." Then Sherlock was standing up, hauling the smaller man- John, Greg supposed- to his feet, and disappearing back into 221b.

Greg briefly considered following. Then he thought about the fact that Sherlock- _Sherlock, _of all people- had just snogged another man. On the pavement. After being tackled to the ground by said man.

Greg went back to the Yard, very deliberately thinking about the shop-owner's brother and avoiding the thoughts of Sherlock Holmes and his apparent boyfriend at all costs.

[ ]

A few weeks later, Greg was knocking on the door to 221b again. There were a few minutes before it was answered, during which he could hear hollering, what seemed to be breaking glass, and then stomping. The door was then pulled open by a short man wearing a jumper and jeans that Greg recognized from the scene outside of the flat not that long ago. Greg watched as the man looked at him, then recognized, and then flushed.

The man gave a small cough, then opened the door wider. "Sherlock," he called. "You've got company."

There wasn't a reply from the back of the flat, and the man sighed. "Sorry," he said to Lestrade. Then he stuck his hand out. "Doctor John Watson," he said.

Greg took the proffered hand. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," he said. They stood awkwardly for a few moments, Doctor Watson peering around Greg, obviously looking for Sherlock.

"Sorry," the doctor said again. "I knocked over a beaker of- well, I don't really know what it was, and it spilled on him. He's supposed to be changing." Doctor Watson's voice rose on the last sentence, and there was a muffled sort of reply from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. Well, Greg corrected himself, with a cringe, probably Sherlock and Doctor Watson's bedroom. "I'll make some tea, you can-" the doctor trailed off, waving a hand in the direction of the living room as he turned and walked towards the kitchen.

Greg stepped into the flat and was unsurprised to find it as much of a mess as usual. There were a few extra items- a different laptop sitting on the desk, an extra coat on the hook- but otherwise one wouldn't have been able to tell there was an extra man living in the flat.

He settled into the grey leather chair as Doctor Watson walked back into the living room, clutching two mugs in his hands, one of which Greg gratefully accepted. The doctor sank into the chair opposite him, and Greg marveled at how at ease he seemed amid the chaos.

The two men sat in not-quite-comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping tea as the sound of the shower coming on suddenly filled the flat.

It took a few minutes, but Greg finally got up the courage to ask his question. "So, Doctor Watson-"

"John, please."

Greg nodded. "John," he said. "So. Ah. You and Sherlock..."

John nodded, ginning somewhat sheepishly as the tips of his ears turned pink. "Yes. Me and Sherlock. It's a fact."

Greg leaned back in the chair, nodding again. "How long?"

John considered, cocking his head to the side. "Since uni, really. Our mums were friends, so we'd known each other for basically our whole lives. Never really considered anything until suddenly he was going to some posh public school and I wasn't. It was strange to suddenly have him just...gone. He kind of takes up a lot of space, without ever asking."

Greg cocked an eyebrow and swept his eyes across the flat. John laughed, then continued. "Yeah. We ended up going to the same university, though. Roomed together, actually. But I was studying pre-med, and he was doing something with chemistry and criminology. Not seriously though, he didn't care for school much. But we didn't really see each other much, with my classes and his odd hours. That was actually when he started...when he got on the, ah, substances." John shifted in his chair a bit. "I found him in what was almost an overdose, and it scared the everliving shit out of me. And I kind of realized..." John trailed off with a shrug. "He just kind of became this presence, even if it wasn't there all the time. That night, I was forced into a world where I wouldn't have him playing the violin in the middle of the night when I had exams the next morning, or reading my work over my shoulder and pointing out all of the flaws.

"It wasn't clean. More like a falling together, where neither of us could survive without the other." John rubbed the back of his neck, clearly frustrated that he couldn't get his point across. "Aren't really words to describe how it happened. It just did, like everything else with him does. And then I joined the Army after I got my medical degree. That was...it was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. I hated leaving, I was worried about him."

"He missed you," Greg said. "There's been quite a bit of proof. Some...ah...lapses."

John frowned. "I know. Mycroft sent notice, managed to arrange a call for me to get to him. Told him I was going to sign on for another tour unless he sobered, that missing me wasn't a reason to go down to that hell pit again. He'll never admit that that was the reason, but Mycroft said it was only ever the day I left and the day we...well, got together."

Lightbulbs went off in Greg's head. "Yep," he affirmed. "I'm guessing you're also the one that sent the scarf? And the letter?"

John nodded. "His birthday. And then whenever I had time to write him."

"Which was not near often enough," a deep voice said. Sherlock draped his arms over John's shoulders, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

"It took you bloody long enough," John said. "Did you plan that? So that I could feel right uncomfortable trying to explain _you_?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. Lestrade has had growing suspicions for months now, I thought it best you explain our relationship. You're better with sentiment."

John made an aggravated sound in the back of his throat, but carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair anyway.

Greg was sufficiently uncomfortable. Sherlock was never touchy-feely, and he had already had a large enough dose of emotion for the day, ta very much. "Well, thanks for that lovely thing. But I really do have a case for you, I'd say it's about a six..."

Sherlock lifted his head from John's shoulder. "Excellent. John, fix another mug of tea, will you? This one has a _story."_


End file.
